


Jerboa and Jerbogel

by DWEmma



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Hamster Princess - Ursula Vernon, VERNON Ursula - Works
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 01:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17013234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DWEmma/pseuds/DWEmma
Summary: Harriet Hamsterbone is inserted into a retelling of the classic Grimm tale:Jorinda and Joringel.





	Jerboa and Jerbogel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_rck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rck/gifts).



The old castle rose out of the mist in a large and dense forest at night, and Harriet Hamsterbone and her battle quail Mumfrey were having a great time exploring. Her best friend walking next to them, Prince Wilbur, was not. 

“Harriet, you said you had a cure for my congestion. Why did you drag me out to explore a creepy old forest?” asked Wilbur. 

“Wilbur, obviously all this mist is great for your congestion. It’s like a giant steam bucket out here. The snot will be dripping out of your nose in no time,” promised Harriet, and Mumfrey querked in agreement. 

Princess Harriet Hamsterbone was not in this large and dense forest just for the sake of her best friend’s nasal leakage, however. She was there looking for a particular witch. This particular witch dwelt all alone, and in the daytime she changed herself into a cat (shudder) or a screech-owl (also not ideal for hamsters), but in the evening she took her proper shape again as a chinchilla. Which was why Harriet was looking for her at night. 

She had heard rumors anyone who came within one hundred paces of the castle was forced to stand still, and could not move until the witch bade him set free. So Harriet figured that as long as she stayed further than 100 paces from the castle, she could observe the witch without being statue-ized. 

Of course, Harriet had been considering the size of her own paces, not the paces of a much larger chinchilla. 

“Harriet?” asked Wilbur, trying not to sound scared, which honestly made him sound more scared. “Why am I frozen?” 

“Chinchilla paces!” exclaimed Harriet, as she realized her mistake. She also realized that ‘chinchilla paces’ made a rather good exclamation, and stored it away in her mind for when she needed new fake swear words to dredge out in front of her mother.

“Harriet?” asked Wilbur, now sounding both scared an exasperated, which wasn’t a good tone on him. 

“There’s a witch we were sneaking up on. She doesn’t let anyone get less than 100 paces from her castle. She’s a chinchilla, so her steps are bigger than ours. It’s my fault, really,” said Harriet, feeling quite proud of herself for admitting her mistake. 

“Whose fault would it be other than yours?” asked Wibur, sounding quite cranky, though, Harriet proudly noted, a lot less congested than he had back at her castle before they set out. 

“It’s fine. She’s going to come out, realize that you’re not worth it, and let you go,” Harriet said, trying to soothe her friend with a half truth. 

“And what will she do to you?” Wilbur asked, seeing through Harriet’s obfuscation. 

“Uh, well, when an innocent maiden comes with 100 paces, chinchilla paces, as we now know, the witch chances her into a bird, shuts her in a wicker-work cage, and carries the bird into a room in the castle with the seven thousand cages of rare birds she already has in there.” 

“QUERK?” Mumfrey asked, horrified. 

“No, I don’t think there are any quail there. The castle isn’t big enough for that may quail. Probably smaller birds like songbirds and hummingbirds.”

“Well,” mused Wilbur, “No one would ever confuse you for an innocent maiden, so hopefully she will let us all go.” 

Harriet’s mother would be horrified by the suggestion that her daughter was anything but an innocent maiden, but Harriet smiled and nodded. “I hope so,” she said. 

The witch came out, wearing a pointed black witch cap, which seemed very on-the-nose to Harriet, though she admitted it would be hard to tell that this adorable chinchilla was an evil witch if it weren’t for the hat. Which was on-her-head, not on-her-nose, as chinchilla noses would not support any sort of headwear, as they are very small. 

“Ah, an innocent maiden,” said the witch, looking at the frozen Harriet. 

“She really isn’t,” mumbled Wilbur. 

“Be gone!” the witch said, flinging Wibur with her magic off to the trees. “Now you. What sort of bird should I make you?” 

“QUERK!” exclaimed Mumfry. 

“You’re right, quail. I don’t have any quail in my collection. QUAIL!” she shouted, and Harriet was a quail. 

* * * *

As Wilbur was walking back home to get help, since he wasn’t terribly good in a fight, he ran across two Jerboa’s named Jerboa (her parents were very literal Jerboas) and Jerbogel (his parents weren’t much more creative.) He hid behind a tree and watched them, since he didn’t know at first if they were a threat or not. 

Jerboas are a sort of long-tailed leaping rodent, in case you don’t know. 

Jerboa was fairer than all the other girls, which most people think means pretty, but actually just means light-haired. She was actually a somewhat ugly light-furred Jerboa, but Jerbogel (who was very handsome) loved her anyhow, and had promised to marry her. They had only been together for a short time, and they still really enjoyed each other’s company, so they liked to go on long walks through the forest so they could be alone together. They did so in the middle of the night because of the witch, who, don’t forget, could turn into a cat or an owl during the day, which were deadly to Jerboas. 

"Take care," said Jerbogel, "that you do not go too near the castle."

“Duh,” said Jerboa. “What am I, an idiot?”

“I just thought it was worth mentioning,” said Jerbogel. “For exposition’s sake.” 

Perhaps all the late night walks were good for them, so they could work out their differences before the wedding. It was a beautiful night, though. The moon shone brightly between the trunks of the trees into the dark green of the forest, and the turtle-doves sang mournfully upon the beech trees.

Jerboa wept now and then. She sat down in the moonlight and was sorrowful. Jerbogel was sorrowful too. ‘They were as sad as if they were about to die,’ Wilbur thought. 

Which, to be honest, they probably were. Who walks that close to an evil witch’s castle if they aren’t some sort of warrior or the best friend of one who was duped into the walk because he thought it would clear his sinuses? 

Then they looked around them, and Jerboa said, “I do not know by which way we should go home.” 

Jerbogel looked through the bushes, and saw the old walls of the castle close at hand. He was horror-stricken and filled with deadly fear. 

Jerboa, for some reason Wilbur couldn’t imagine, was singing, even though this was a terrible time for singing, "My little bird, with the necklace red, sings sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, he sings that the dove must soon be dead, Sings sorrow, sor - jug, jug, jug."

The end of the song wasn’t, as everyone obviously knows, jug jug jug, since those aren’t actually words. However, Jerboa had been changed into a nightingale, which was why she sang “jug jug jug.” 

Jerbogel could not move. Wilbur had sympathy for him, but since he didn’t want to get flung into the woods again, he stayed where he was. Jerbogel stood there like a stone, and could neither weep nor speak, nor move hand or foot. 

The old witch came out, the same as before, grabbed the nightingale in her little chinchilla hands, muttered to herself, and took it away into her castle. Jerbogel was too paralyzed to speak, and Wilbur was too afraid to speak. 

At last the chinchilla came back, and said in a hollow voice, "Greet you, Zachiel. If the moon shines on the cage, Zachiel, let him loose at once."  
Then Jerbogel was freed. He fell on his springy little knees before the chinchilla. “Please, oh horrible witch, give me back my Jerboa. For I love that light-furred too literally named rodent!” 

“You’ll never have her again! She’s my bird, now!” the witch said, and went into the castle. 

Jerbogel called, he wept, he lamented, but all in vain, "Hooh, what is to become of me?"

“Uh, sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, uh,” said Wilbur, stepping out from the bushes, and making Jerbogel scream in fright and bouce away just a bit. 

“Who are you?” asked Jerbogel. 

“I’m Wilbur. Uh, Prince Wilbur. My best friend Harriet was just turned into a quail and brought into that horrible witch’s castle, right before your friend was.” 

“She’s not my friend. She’s the love of my life.” And Jerbogel began to weep. Again. 

“Uh, if you’d stop crying, we can maybe come up with a plan.” 

“Do you have a plan?” 

“No? That’s why I thought we should come up with one.” 

* * * *

Meanwhile, in the castle, the witch chinchilla had put Jerboa (who was no longer a jerboa, but a songbird) into a cage next to the larger cage that Mumfry and Harriet the battle quail shared. 

“QUERK?” asked Harriet, as she realized that she only spoke quail. 

QUERK?” asked Mumfry, excited for a moment that Harriet finally spoke quali, only to realize from a shaking of her head that thought she understood her beloved battle quail, she didn’t have a handle on the accent to speak back. She had, accoring to Mumfry’s ears, said “My hovercraft is full of eels,” and Mumfry knew neither what a hovercraft or an eel was in the first place, nor why one would be full of the other. 

“Jub jub jub,” said Jerboa, and then inwardly sighed. It would be hard to plan an escape when nether of them spoke the language that they spoke. 

* * * *

Jerbogel and Wilbur came up with the plan of running away, at least for now. Both needed a good night’s sleep to fight the witch, they knew they couldn’t fight her during the day when she could turn into various predators, and they didn’t want to risk either of them sleepwalking into the 100 chinchilla paces zone. 

“Do you sleepwalk?” asked Jerbogel.

“No, but it would be a terrible time for me to start,” said Wilbur, and both agreed it wouldn’t be worth the risk. 

So they walked until they came to a strange village, where they found somewhere safe to curl up in a pile of hay, and fell asleep. In the night, they both had the same dream. In it, they found a blood-red flower, in the middle of which was a beautiful large pearl. In the dream, they both saw themselves picking the flower and going with it to the castle, where everything they touched with the flower was freed from enchantment. Jerbogel freed Jerboa and Wilbur saved Harriet. 

When they awoke, they shared the dream with each other.

“So I had this dream about a flower?” said Jerbogel. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything because I don’t believe in prophetic dreams,” said Wilbur.

“No, the dream wasn’t pathetic, I found a flower with a pearl in it, and I was about to save my dear Jerboa. It was the opposite of pathetic,” defended Jerbogel. 

“Not pathetic. Prothetic. Dealing with prophecy. Future telling,” explained Wilbur, and Jerbogel continued to stare at him blankly. “Never mind. Let’s go find that flower.” 

So the went looking for it over hill and over Dale. (Dale was very understanding, thought insisted that they must look elsewhere.) After nine hours of looking, Jerbogel found the blood-red flower. In the middle of it there was a large dew-drop, as big as the finest pearl.

“This is it!” shouted Jerbogel, a little too loudly for Wilbur’s liking. “At last I can save my poor Jerboa!”

“Are we sure?” asked Wilbur, who had put up with at least 80 false alarms that day, Jerbogel being just as loud each time. 

“YES I’M SURE,” shouted Jerbogel. And Wilbur leaned in, and nodded. Yes, this time he was correct. That was the dream flower. “WE HAVE FINALLY FOUND THE METHOD TO SAVE MY LOVE.” 

“We’ve only been looking for nine hours. You act like you’ve been looking for nine days,” said Wilbur, rubbing his sore ears, and sneezing. 

They walked back to the castle while it was still night. It was the next night, since they had slept through part of the day, then searched through nine hours of it, and then walked back to the castle, which put them toward the end of the next night. 

When they reached the 100 chinchilla paces, Wilbur muttered, “Chinchilla paces!” as they passed over the threshold, both clutching the blood-orange flower for protection. They kept going until they go to the door. Jerbogel was practically giddy with joy as he touched the door with the flower, and it sprang open. 

“Oh, spring loaded flower lock,” said Wilbur, admiring the magic, but sneezing again. 

They walked in through the courtyard, and listened for the sound of the birds. Any querk or jub-jub-jub would be welcome at this point. At last they heard a series of unpleasant squacks, and hoped that Harriet and Jerboa were housed with all the other birds, though if there really were seven thousand of them, it was possible they were all kept in different rooms. Seven thousand birds is a lot of birds. Wilbur thought of the bird poop, and shuddered. 

But when they entered the room, they found that it did contain a whole lot of birds. Wilbur didn’t have the time to count, but they found the chinchilla witch feeding seeds to what looked like many many many birds. Possibly seven thousand. He didn’t have time to verify. 

When with witch saw Jerbogel and Wilbur she was angry, very angry, and scolded and spat poison and gall at them, which was pretty unusual because the ability to spit out one’s own gallbladder juice was not a trait most chinchillas possessed. But due to the flower, she couldn’t get within two chinchilla paces of them. 

“Do you remember what kind of bird your Harriet was turned into?” asked Jerbogel. “For I will never forget the beautiful songbird my Jeboa became.” 

“Uh,” said Wilbur, looking around the room at the many many many birds, but imediately spotting Mumfry next to a quail who wasn’t very good at looking like a quail. “Yeah, she’s that one.” 

“QUERK!” shouted Mumfry, meaning ‘you found us!’ 

“QUERK!” shouted Harriet, meaning ‘LOL wut pear,’ since she still hadn’t figured out the accent. 

They touched the cage with the flower, and Harriet turned back into a hamster. 

“What about the other quail?” asked Jerbogel.

“The other quail is Harriet’s battle quail,” explained Wilbur, as he let Harriet out of the cage. 

“Ugh, I thought I’d never be free,” said Harriet. 

“You’re welcome,” said Wilbur, trying to prompt Harriet to have manners, but it didn’t work. 

“I see the nightingales over here!” shouted Jerbogel, and they ran after him. 

“What are we doing?” asked Harriet, confused. 

“We’re saving his true love, Jerboa,” Wilbur replied. 

“Isn’t he a jerboa?” asked Harriet, still confused. 

“His love is a jerboa named Jerboa,” explained Wilbur. “His name is Jerbogel.” 

“They didn’t have very creative parents,” Harriet noted, as they reached the songbirds. 

There were many hundred nightingales, and Wilbur had no idea how they were going to find the right one, so he just started tapping on random cages. All manner of rodents appeared where the birds had once been. But not Jerboa. It was then that Harriet spotted the witch chinchilla trying to sneak out of the room with a cage with a bird in it. 

“STOP THAT CHINCHILLA!” Harriet shouted, since now that she was fully caught up in the adventure, she was no longer confused. 

Swiftly Mumfry sprang towards the chinchilla witch, pinning her down to the ground. What a good battle quail. Jerbogel caught up and touched the cage with the flower, and also the chinchilla. She could now no longer bewitch anyone. And there was Jerboa, clasping him round the neck, and she was as ugly and light-furred as ever, and he was so happy to see her. 

They looked around the room, and saw that touching the witch with the flower had released all the spells, and all the birds that weren’t actual birds were rodents again. Some of the birds had actually been birds, and they freed those from the cages as well. And yes, Wilbur had been correct. There was a lot of bird poo. 

“For once I’d like to have an adventure that didn’t involve something really gross,” complained Wilbur, who feared he would never get all the poo off his toes. 

“Oh be quiet,” said Harriet. “We freed a bunch of fair and dark maidens from a witch’s spell. You can deal with a little bird poo between your toes. Plus, I hear it’s good luck.” 

“QUERK,” said Mumfry, who thought the idea that being pooed on by anyone of his animal class being good luck was a little speciesist. And a lot disgusting.

Jerboa and Jerbogel couldn’t be counted on to help free the seven thousand birds and maidens from their cages, especially the ones who had been bigger rodents and were now really wedged in there, because they were too interested in kissing each other and whispering sweet nothings. 

“I missed you so much,” said Jerbogel. “But I had to perservere.” 

“I thought you would never rescue me,” said Jerboa, “But you did.” 

“Well it only took me less than 24 hours. I had to find a magic flower. I think I rescued you pretty promptly considering.” Jerbogel was a little less sweet when he realized how demanding his Jerboa had been. He had done his best. And succeeded, he might add. 

“I’m sorry,” said Jerboa. “You’re right. That was rude of me.” 

And Jerbogel was so happy to hear his beloved admit that she had been a little rude, that he grabbed her by the hand and they fled the castle, and, as far as Harriet and Wilbur knew, lived happily ever after. 

“Well, let’s keep freeing the maidens,” grumbled Harriet. “You know, it’s a good thing that we were part of this adventure. Otherwise, those idiots never would have thought to let these girls out of their cages.” 

And all the maidens (probably) lived happily ever after.

But Wilbur’s nose congestion became way worse. It turns out that he’s allergic to bird poop AND blood-orange mystical flowers.


End file.
